


O Gentle Sleep

by Harbinger



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Introspection, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 17:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6433426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harbinger/pseuds/Harbinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And while under other circumstances the Captain looks forward to the light of day, now he damns it, desires to chase it away, if only so the petite Swan slumbering in the warm embrace of his arms could sleep for some time more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Gentle Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> it has been a while since i posted anything, oops. my roommate and i began OUAT some weeks back and needless to say, it has been a serious hit around our apartment. i expect more CS to come, because i love them. be gentle, first time writing for this fandom and these characters. i am not looking for concrit. graciously beta'd by my dear friend Heather, all other mistakes are mine, and cross-posted to my tumblr, [hookisms](hookisms.tumblr.com). prompts and comments are always welcome.

Small, compared to him, she fits snug at his side, a hellion garbed in crimson-dyed leather and gold-spun locks that must surely have been sculpted and molded by whatever god or gods lived above. She seems so petite, until she brazenly tackles someone to the ground or dares to clasp a wrist in fury with a bruising force behind it. Youthful eyes that have seen too much blaze with challenge and authority, such that Evil Queens and Pirate Captains bend their heads to her. The pure ferocity that she exudes calls to all others around her, a natural born leader despite her desires against such a thing. 

She’s the Savior to many, a princess to some, an enemy to others, but to him, she’s Swan. 

Or Emma.

In sleep, she appears most peaceful. The soft turn of her warm mouth, altered by the slump of her cheek where it rests against his shoulder, begs a kiss from him, though he’d not dare disturb her hard-won slumber for a thing he can be gifted at any other time. No lines mar her fine brow, the dips of stress worn away for the moment in the sweetness of the embrace of sleep. His gaze may trace over the sway of her nose, over the curve of her maw, and down the sleek elegance of her throat without her eyes upon him and the Captain savours such a moment.

His skull dips a bit, turns in order to permit his nose to bury within those gold-spun tresses, and he inhales. The sweet bitterness of chocolate tickles his senses, with something that warms him through to the very soul. It recalls to mind when once he took a sip of her beloved hot chocolate, all at once sweet and bitter that burned like a good rum though his body and warmed him from within to without, in a way that felt cleansing rather than filthy, as alcohol so often left behind.

Yet underneath that lies something sharp, a tinge of ozone before a storm, the way the ocean smells before a hurricane arrives. Her magic, no doubt, the very essence of it crawling beneath her silky flesh, reacting to perhaps some dream or merely his presence. Perhaps that last bit is mere arrogance. Perhaps not.

She does not often sleep like this, in a way that gives her a sense of fragility, that but a touch might shatter her into pieces and leave him straining to put back together the puzzle that is Emma Swan. Away from her body does he angle the sharp end of his hook, unwilling even now to sully her with such a malicious part of himself. Never could he forgive himself, if ever harm came to her by the hook that serves him so well and has for so long.

She would surely call him an idiot for these fanciful musings that he ponders during her rest, though it would only cause a smile to blossom across his rugged visage. He accepts her insults as he accepts her kisses, gladly and with a warm smile, for her taunts never feel so much like taunts than they do soft declarations of affection. A reminder of care and devotion, shaped as an insult. 

The world without means nothing to him right now. Indeed, the Evil Queen could bring forth a new wroth or Oz itself could arrive in a sweeping gesture and he’d care little so long as Emma had another few hours to rest her pretty, tired head upon his shoulder. He’d spare her from anything if he could, though by now Hook has become well aware of a simple fact: she does not need saving. She owns herself and her world around her, a sphere that nothing and no one can penetrate unless she so desires it. It lends to her a power that makes him nearly shiver, for he craves such a power.

He’d sip from the same well from which she draws that power, if given the chance.

The tiniest of shifting made by her has his form automatically adjusting so as to permit her the utmost comfort, cradled against his side as she is, as if she the sun and he a planet drawn to her gravity. Beneath, the bed feels soft and curves to fit them, nothing at all like the firm mattress in the Captain’s cabin of his vessel, but a delight to the senses nonetheless. Rarely has he ever known such a luxury, the only gift of the senses given to him but a cot under the back and the rumble of the sea, for as long as he can recall. 

Bound to her in ways he cannot explain, the pirate Captain alters his hold enough to pull her closer with a gentle touch, agonizing over the mere idea of waking her. It would be a crime, a sin punishable by death surely, to awaken a beauty such as her before rest had refreshed and replenished all that had been lost by turmoil and time, stolen by grief and by loss. A pirate he may be and a scoundrel all around but even he knows the detriments of waking a lady before a lady should be woken. And were he to waken her, it would mean losing these precious hours to observe and to admire, to memorize.

After all, is there anything more beautiful than the darling swell of her cheek? Does more beauty exist in the stars above than in the bruises that line her vexed brows? The sea cannot dream to match how her lips curl, faint as a child’s whisper, as if the current reverie or thought running through her sleeping psyche is a good one and oh, but he is indeed just selfish enough to dream that she dreams of him. Little else would please him more. For all the gold he has plundered, for all the jewels he has stolen, none of it can match the finery that makes up her aureate locks; they are treasures, surely, nothing more or less than that. Indeed, everything about her speaks of treasure, from the top of her cranium to the toes currently tucked to warm under one of his legs.

Beyond the casement, the oncoming march of day ceaselessly moves ever closer, as milky fingers stretch into purpled heavens, chasing away fragmented stars, damning the nightly celestial bodies back into their dark chasms. Soon enough, the blazing sun will rise over the line of the horizon to cast its heavenly glow upon the land. Ebony and violet will turn to the shimmering hues of flames, burning oranges and glittering crimsons, as the light spreads. And while under other circumstances the Captain looks forward to the light of day, now he damns it, desires to chase it away, if only so the petite Swan slumbering in the warm embrace of his arms could sleep for some time more.

A child’s sentiment, of course. She has duties, as does he, to attend to upon the waking of sleepy Storybrooke. But he can pretend, for a few moments longer, that all is well and they are not, as usual, facing the undoing of everything they know. He can pretend, for precious seconds more, that they are but two lovers devoted beyond the sands of mere time and onward to something more immortal. 

Captain Hook allows himself his childish sentiment just for a bit longer.


End file.
